To Play the Unforgivable Role
by Doctor Who's Lost Companion
Summary: It appears a doctor and mortician have attempted the impossible, yet how long can John and Molly harbor this secret from Him and find answers to questions that must be answered. halfheartedheroine: Molly, Sherlock DWLC: John, The Demon Angel
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Molly shivered from the cold, having been in the stone and dampened basement for so long. Adjusting her lab coat, she looked over to John and tried to speak up.

"You know if we do this we can never go back."

John slipped on a pair of rubber gloves and stared at the body underneath the sheet before him.

"I think we have already reached that point of no return…I'm sure though…"

The two nodded in agreement and fitted on their goggles as John flipped on the large electrical switch causing the instruments to whizz and beep. Energy filling the room.

"One. More. Miracle."

The body on the table seized, arching back beneath the sheet. His arms flailed, narrowly missing striking at Molly and John, and his legs spasmed, falling to hang limply off the table. As the electricity was turned down, he went still, except for his chest. It rose and fell gently.

"Oh my god... Molly..." John almost fell backwards and she gripped his arm.

"John I'm scared..."

He groaned. The cloth veiled over his face was thin enough to breathe through, but he strained his neck, struggling to get it off. His body felt heavy- '-where was he?' he wondered.

"So then... he's alive?" Molly quivered and dared not to venture near him, still clutching to John.

"I think so... Sh- sh- sherlock?" With a shaky hand, John flipped the cloth of the body and gasped a bit, pulling his hand back quickly. Sherlock gasped, the sudden light burning his eyes. Carefully, he squinted up into the light, peering up at the darkened figures above him.

"John?" he questioned, his voice thick from disuse. His hands were shaking on top of the table, and he shivered against the chill, "M-Molly?", "Where-where are we?"

"It worked... Molly it actually worked!" John clasped a hand to his mouth and Molly fell onto her knees in disbelief, "We... um... on an abandoned island in Scotland... so then, you can understand us?"

"Sort of... you sound far away, but it's not too bad." Sherlock winced, and dragged a shaky hand up to his chest. His arm didn't seem to want to cooperate very well, but he prodded at his skin for the source of the ache. His chest seemed to be held together with metal staples. He trailed his fingers along the zipper and anxiously called out.

"John? John! What-I don't understand-"

"Shhhhh, it's ok. It's ok. What's the last thing you remember?" John neared his hand to his shoulder, wanting to comfort him, but it was such a struggle to touch the impossible. The improbable.

"I'm s-s-sorry John... I-I j-just need some air," Molly rushed out with her voice caught in her throat and almost missed the door because her eyes were so misty.

Sherlock's breath was quick and a bit ragged with panic. "We were in the lab at St. Bart's, and Mrs. Hudson was hurt, and you shouted at me but I couldn't go- and then Moriarty was there- and, I don't- I don't remember, John, why can't I remember?"

"Now listen, Sherlock, please. I need you to try to stay calm because... I am not sure how... I just need you to keep yourself together alright?" John managed, "I'm fine, everyone's ok."

The Detective tried to steady his breathing and nodded, still running his fingers down the jagged stapled line. "I'll try. I just don't understand... what happened?"

"Well... to be honest I'm not sure myself. You said Mrs. Hudson was hurt, so I rushed back to the flat. But when I got there she was fine, so I had to take a cab back to Bart's and then- then when I get there you are standing at the edge of the bloody roof! You jumped Sherlock, you made _me_ watch!" his voice shook because the memory always stirred up a mixture of emotions.

Sherlock closed his eyes. His shoes scraping against the ledge of St. Bart's, his hand stretched out, John standing on the street below. "Oh, gods," he murmured, the disjointed memories coming back. "I didn't want to, but I- I think I had to-" Moriarty's leering face swam into his vision again, and he shook his head.

"Had to? Well, never mind about that, what about you? Any pain?"

"My chest... I can't stop shaking," he mumbled, searching along the right side of his face and finding more staples leading into his hair, "My head hurts. Did I... was I dead?" he asked shakily.

"I'll give you some pain killers," John answered and pushed a needle into Sherlock's arm, "Should work, if you can talk and move then the circulatory system should be stable enough," he mumbled. Inside, he could have shouted to the heavens and laugh Death in the face. He won. Feeling tingly, Sherlock struggled to prop himself up on his elbows as the drugs hit his system.

"I don't really know what I thought would happen after I died," he said, trying to remain focused on John as the dizziness set in, "This wasn't exactly the afterlife I was expecting, but it's interesting. I hope you and Molly didn't get here prematurely like me."

"Um... yes, I was lucky enough to run into her and we wandered for some time," John bit his lip and tried to think of something clever, "For me I was at Barfundle Bay where my father had taken me once and now we seem to be in Scotland... why would you choose Scotland?"

Sherlock lay back down, too dizzy to hold himself up. "I have no idea. I'm quite glad that you're here, though. So we're both dead?" he asked, the painkillers blurring his speech mildly.

"Just... just rest, it's always rough when you cross the other side," John finally managed to run a hand through Sherlock's hair and tried not to cringe at the staples in his head. Molly had to know about this as well and quickly.

'I am happy to see you again too Sherlock, I missed you."

** "**I missed you too," he murmured, his eyes drifting closed. "I'm tired. Sorry. How strange it is, being dead," he added quietly.

"Ok. I'll be back in a bit, just stay here." Reluctantly, John pulled away from him and found Molly outside, knees to her chest on the floor.

"You going to be ok?"

She nodded, swiping at the tears on her cheeks, "He's really back, isn't he? We actually did it?"

"Yeah, we brought Sherlock back. But he doesn't know he's back."

The mortician stood up, nervously tucking her gloves away, "What do you mean, he doesn't know? He can't remember anything?"

"Not really, he doesn't seem to remember the suicide or anything, only that I had last spoken to him in the lab at Bart's. I just couldn't tell him, I don't know how. Oh hi Sherlock, we brought you back to life and with the parts of other people in order for it to work," he leaned against the wall tiredly.

Molly leaned against the wall beside him. "It's normal for people to lose memories about a traumatic event. It's not that surprising that he's blocking what happened on the rooftop," she said quietly.

"We can't just _not_ tell him. It's Sherlock: it'll drive him mad if we won't tell him everything." She sighed, and untangled her goggles from her hair.

"Well he should be sleeping now, had to give him some morphine for the pain, though I really hope it's not permanent," John pondered for a minute as the silence enveloped them, "Do you regret anything?" His joy and pride began to drain at the realization that he had created something, not just bringing his friend back... it was Sherlock though for sure. Right?

Molly looked down at the uneven concrete floor. "I don't know," she admitted. "I'm scared-terrified, really. No one's ever done this before, John. If he could remember us, that's a good sign, right?"

"Mhm. Maybe we ought to go to bed too, figure this out more in the morning. Night."

"Goodnight, John," she nodded back towards the operating room, "I'll let you know when he's awake again."

"You sure? If anything happens, come get me." Taking the creaky wooden stairs up, John stripped of his gloves and goggles, stuffing them in his coat pocket. At first he tossed and turned to try to sleep. Then he was having the nightmares again, Sherlock always falling and always meeting a destination. Now there was something after him, something Supernatural. Whatever it was, it tore him apart, limb from limb, and in screaming with blood spatter everywhere John remembering distinctly ice blue eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"John?" Molly called, trying to drag him from the nightmare, gently shaking his shoulder, "He's awake. He's asking for you." She sat on the edge of his bed and smiled sadly at him. "It's the nightmare again, isn't it?"

Gasping, he bolted up and looked around wild eyed before he can focus on her. His sheets were dampened from the cold sweat he was in and rubbing his face he answered her groggily.

"It always is. Send him in then," John answered and waved his hand at her. She left and returned, supporting Sherlock as he eased himself into John's desk chair. He was clinging to his IV pole but smiling at John.

"Hi, John," he said, the last bits of the drugs in his system mildly affecting his speech, "I'm not shaking as much as yesterday, see? Does that mean I'm almost completely over to this side?" He held out his left hand, tremoring lightly.

"I'll be able to play the violin again soon," he added, his widening grin stretching at his sutures.

"That's excellent, I'm so happy for you," John grinned back and was astonished how well his muscles were working together, how most of the cells did not reject each other since not all were from the same DNA, "I can't wait to hear you play again."

Sherlock smiled at him and then turned his intense gaze onto the thick lines of sutures and stitches along his arms and legs. "I don't really understand how I sustained this much damage from a simple fall. I must have been a wreck to put back together," he mused, fully accepting the unusual circumstances that had brought them back together. Behind him, Molly pressed a hand over her mouth, trying not to cry.

"You did end up as a bloody mess there mate," John's grin almost faltered, so he covered it up by clearing his throat, "This will be nice I think, we could live here together like we did back at the flat. Maybe try to find someone else's skull to replace yours."

Sherlock laughed a soft wheezy chuckle. "I'd like that." "I- I need to check on... the- um..." Molly murmured faintly before turning and nearly fleeing from the room. Sherlock watched her go and turned back to John.

"How exactly are you handling the whole "being dead" thing?" he asked, "How did it happen to you?"

"M-m-me?" John was startled by the answer and tried to think quickly, "I... well I was..." though technically this wasn't a lie, "The same some do whenever a loved one is lost to them." John averted his eyes and could play out the scene easily in his mind. Drunk and drugged, wishing something would dull the nightmares and ease the depression. Nothing was ever enough. To his luck Mrs. Hudson had heard him stumbling about upstairs and found him hanging by a scarf in the closet. At first he was dead, dead in the ambulance when his heart stopped, though John was robbed of the opportunity to finish what he started when they got him breathing again.

Sherlock nodded, his childish curious expression settling into a more appropriate serious one. "Oh. After I... went. You went too," he reached over to rest his hand on John's, hoping he didn't mind the rough stitching across his palm, "I'm sorry, John."

John shook his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose, inhaling air. "Yes. I'm sorry... I just...I couldn't..."

"It's okay, John," he murmured. "We're... on the other side. We can heal- that's what we're supposed to do here, right?"

"Healing. Yes, that doesn't sound too bad," John stretched his left hand and clenched it. In doing so he wondered how long he had been doing that throughout the conversation, his nervous tick. Very much aware of it now, he tucked it inside his other hand.

"Doesn't matter now, because you are here in... I guess Paradise? Paradise... such an interesting word."

** "**Better than the alternative," Sherlock replied with a light smirk. He glanced at John's hands for a moment before looking up at the IV bags. He turned them towards him, looking at the handwritten labels on blue medical tape.

"I need quite a few different medications," he commented, his eyebrows dipping down in concentration, knowing he knew the names, yet they kept slipping away.

"Mhm, like you said healing, let me check your heart," finally the army doctor climbed out of bed and took the stethoscope off from his bed post. Kneeling in front of Sherlock, he hesitated to place his hands on his chest, but swallowed his doubt. Duty first.

"Just take in a deep breathe alright? That's it good."

Sherlock complied, breathing deeply when he was ordered, trying not to jump as the cool plastic migrated down his ribs.

"Molly seems anxious. More than usual," he murmured, "Was it something I said?"

"Not really, I just think she's a bit more shocked to see you than I am is all. I wouldn't worry about it," John flickered his eyes a moment to look up to his best friend, "She missed you a lot too, it was rough for her, though she eventually managed. Much stronger than me that girl."

Disagreeing Sherlock shook his head, watching John's methodic movements. "You don't give yourself enough credit, John. I'm sorry again, for... leaving. I still don't really remember why I did it. I feel like I'm missing bits and pieces all over the map."

"Probably best we don't ever remember," John weakly smiled and his eyes lingered on his friend for longer than he should have allowed them. So he stood briskly and stretched nonchalantly.

"Maybe some breakfast, even here you can still have an appetite, what about you? I know I'm starving," quickly he exited the room and clutched his chest to control his breathing. Why did this have to be so difficult!?

** S**herlock watched John's quick exit with slightly narrowed eyes, before toddling after him with his IV pole. Paradise was oddly evasive sometimes, he mused, taking his time down the stairs. Was it his subconscious skirting around the issue of death? It would certainly explain why he had lost slivers of carefully catalogued memories. Molly was in the kitchen when they arrived, staring into a cup of coffee.

"Molly...Molly..." John urged in whispered and tilted his head to the tall figure behind him, "Soooo breakfast! Any preferences? Anyone? Anyone?"

She stood up quickly, snapping a folder on the table shut before moving to stand in front of the fridge. "How about I make waffles?" she asked in a slightly higher register than normal, forcing herself to smile, "It's alright, I've got it. You should go relax. I can make it."

"Brilliant, I'll just make myself a cup too then," John moved to the counter and pulled two cups out of the cupboard. Easily he poured himself a cup and almost forgot about Sherlock's as he went to sit down again. John was not used to serving two cups, not anymore, it had fallen into obscurity.

Carefully Sherlock sat at the tiny kitchen table and watched the two of them move around the kitchen. Molly seemed to be blocking the inside of the fridge from view, he would have to check it out later. John set a cup of tea in front of him, and after he sipped at it carefully, he smiled up at John. "It's perfect. Thank you."

"Don't thank me, thank the chef, she's the one that's been helping take care this poor sod," John thumped his chest and chuckled, "She helped me a lot even _after_, my darling girl."

Molly turned away from whisking at the batter to give him an appreciative grin. Sherlock chuckled. "So, you two have been getting along famously, then?"

"Swimmingly. If anything I would say we were both part of you fan club, so we had enough in common," he said before allowing it to pass through the filter and bit his tongue to shut up, trying not to blush.

'Damned idiot, course you had to open your mouth!'

'Well would you like me to announce that together we had the common goal of bringing him back to life?! Yes because that would glaze over so fucking well.'

Giving into a snort Sherlock sipped at his tea again. "Paradise seems to be attempting to stroke my ego," he noted the faint blush across John's cheeks, and added, "I am glad that you two have been able to keep each other company _after_. It's nice."

John flickered his eyes nervously you Molly, though relaxed.

"Well it's your Paradise. Maybe we should rally Sherlock fan girls and lay them at your feet to tell you how amazing and stunning you are. The brain genius and _mysterious_ cheek bones," he teased as he flicked the side of Sherlock's face, "I'm starving here, almost done?":

At this Sherlock laughed harder this time, coughing a bit with the effort. Molly turned and set the plate of waffles between them. "Ta-dah!" she exclaimed, before turning back for the syrup, "And with a minimal mess in the kitchen, if I say so myself," she added, picking up the files off the table to store them away in a cabinet.

"Fmamnasic," was said in between waffle bites because all yesterday and the day before that John had lost the ability to eat. Nerves kept him from being hungry and it was all catching up to him. Sitting there in enjoyment, John observed Sherlock out of the corner of his eye in interest. Barely anything changed, save for his outward appearance and if the cells held together maybe it might repair itself. Meanwhile Molly pulled up the extra chair from the corner and put two waffles on a plate.

"Want some?" she offered to Sherlock, marveling at the fact that she was offering a formerly dead man food. He shook his head, holding up the cup of tea. "I'll just stick with this for the moment," he murmured, "Why am I tired?" he asked, rubbing at his eyes, "I've been awake for an hour and I feel like I've run a marathon. Is that normal?"

"I dunno, I think it might be different for everyone, still adjusting then. Here," John had plopped a second waffle on his plate, but instead left his utensils and offered him a hand up, "Best you lie in bed a little longer and you can take my room, I'll stick to the couch."

Agreeing Sherlock nodded, letting John pull him up and lead him from the room. He could not really understand Molly's expression, but they were gone before he could ask. "Sorry," he mumbled, leaning against John up the stairs, "I feel like an invalid. Might have overdone it this morning... I just wanted to see what I was capable of."

"No harm in trying, hm." Carefully he laid the body on the bed, one of his finger tips pulling away instinctively when it felt a stitch that had been sown in the flesh, "I um... you think you'll be ok? Feel any more pain?"

At John's inquiry Sherlock shook his head, shifting a bit to reduce the strain on his sutures. "I'm fine, John, just worn out. I don't like sleeping, but I'll give it a shot," he added with a tired grin.

Bringing his hand up to his face in analysis, John wondered what it was like, to be in Sherlock's position. Carefully, he rested a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, on top of the sutures and trailed his finger all the way down his arm to his wrist, trying to force himself to face it.

"As long as you are ok then."

A little surprised Sherlock watched as John's hand lightly traced his skin from shoulder to wrist, not skipping over the incisions. "I'm fine," he repeated, nodding. "I'll be okay."

"...ya...sure," John agreed and left him alone. Now what was their next move? Wait until he healed over before releasing him to the world, though in hiding.

'Releasing? Why such a word? Is he an animal?'

'Course he's not he's my friend! Not what I was thinking.'

'Do you question if he is human?'

'NO! Not an animal or creature, he's human in every way, maybe even more now he's back.'

'So are you then here just to play God? How selfish.'

Molly was still in the kitchen, trying in vain to rearrange the contents of the fridge to obscure the formaldehyde jars. She jumped when John returned to the kitchen, and she pressed a hand to her heart.

"Jesus, you can't sneak up on me like that," she said weakly, "I thought for a moment that it was him, and I don't know how we can explain this-" she gestured to the jars, a spare kidney bobbing slightly.

"I would say toss it all into the sea, but if something happens and he needs surgery... his body is just so new to him and I am worried that everything will function properly. So far all the cells are accepting one another, no inflaming infections to indicate distress which is good."

"He's responding pretty well to the biologics, so hopefully we can avoid any issue of graft versus host for as long as we can. He's going to realize what the medications are for at some point, you know," Molly pointed out, "I'm surprised that he hasn't already. We have to tell him, John."

John shook his head and nibbled on his lip. It did seem a bit unusual Sherlock's observation nature had not picked up hidden clues John and Molly would have left behind.

"Maybe...what if...what if he's not all there? Like, sure, brought him back and his personality seems intact with most memories. But what of his...abilities?"

Giving it some thought Molly stood up, somewhat satisfied with the arrangement for the moment. "You said he had forgotten what happened on the roof, and a big part of that would involve Moriarty and the games they played. It's possible that it's...missing. Or it could be the painkillers he's still on!" she added quickly, "He seems to really believe that this is the afterlife... maybe he's not trying to seek out information that goes against that."

"That certainly would make everything easier, I think it would make him happier if he didn't know. Hell I would not want to know I suppose 'Ignorance is bliss' how they say. More importantly... will you be ok with this Molly? I mean, you did so much! I cannot think of any way to pay you back for all the work you done and how you did not turn away this mad idea of mine," he smiled fondly at his assistant.

Unfortunately for John she did not return his smile. "I think he's going to find out eventually, John. You can't hide the rest of the world from him! He's too curious for that... he's going to search for everything. He's not exactly the "lay in a hammock and contemplate the meaning of life" type of person!" She stopped, sighing a bit, "I want to help you, John, I really do, but I just don't think it's going to be possible. I don't think we can keep up this charade for very long. I'm sorry."

"But how! Think about it Molly. We can never go back to London and he can't work for Lestrade anymore or if he does, maybe secretly. People might reject him Molly... I'm still having a slightly difficult time dealing with it all... Already people hated him and now there is all the more reason! It's horrible, I know but... I just can't have him be hurt again."

Ready to reject his think Molly realized John was right, there was risk of returning Sherlock to London so that he would only be further ostracized. The ideas caused Molly to tear up and she tried to keep her voice steady.

"I know. I'm so sorry. I think he deserves to understand what happened. We can't just hide him away in the basement forever! He's not going to stand for that, and you know it. I don't know what we can do at this point," she wiped at her cheeks.

"I just wanted us to live together," John was practically pleading to particularly nobody, "I just wanted to see him one more time, is that too much to ask," John stood up angrily and pounded his fist on the table, "If you can't handle this then maybe you should go. I wouldn't want you to, but... it was all my idea."

"John, please," Molly came over and grabbed him by the shoulder, "I was glad to help you with this, really, I couldn't believe I'd ever get to see him again either, but I think we need to talk this over-we should have talked about this before! I'll go, if you want to keep him in the dark," Molly said quietly. "I can't do that to him, and I can't be here when you lie to him. I'm sorry."

There was a quiet moment where John kept silent, shifting in his mind what to do. Finally he cupped Molly's cheek and kissed her forehead.

"Then leave us to Paradise," he said a bit bitterly, though tried to smile, "I'm sorry."

The words hit hard though Molly nodded, a few tears spilling down her cheeks. "Me too, John," she tried to wipe them away with her sleeve, glancing around the tiny kitchen, "I don't know if I should tell him I'm going... I don't know how I'll explain it. Can't really move on much farther than Paradise, right?" She crossed her arms, feeling tiny.

John chuckled at her stubbornness and began to calm down, "Don't worry about it. I'll come up with a reason for your departure. Should be asleep now if you want to just take a peak." Turning around, he led her back to the main bedroom and opened the door ever so slightly for Molly.

Very quietly she stepped forward into the room. She had grown used to seeing Sherlock like this: prone, eyes closed, hands resting at his sides. But now his cheeks were tinged pink beneath the gnarled suturing, his chest rose and fell, and his mouth had fallen open in sleep. Molly sat on the edge of the bed and gently laid her hand along his jaw. Aware of John behind her, she leaned forward and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek. "Goodbye, Sherlock," Molly whispered, holding back the tears. "I'm glad I got to see you again."

Molly stood, not trusting herself to say much more. Returning to the doorway, she whispered to John, "I'm going to pack a few things and go to my sister's, until I figure things out. You need to let me know how his condition changes, okay?" She paused before adding, "Don't break his heart, John."

"Technically it's not his to begin with," John noted and watched her pack both regretting and feeling relieved that she was leaving them alone. For the past year the two had rarely separated, researching and gathering. Traveling from one place to the next in their search and now she was suddenly leaving him. In his guilt the army doctor escorted her out of the cottage and down the mile stretch in the small car they bought. The docks he had taken Molly to had two small boats tied and they bobbed lazily in the water. She hugged him tightly before setting her suitcase in the tiny motorboat.

"Tell him, John, please," she begged. "The longer you wait, the worse it's going to be." Molly glanced out over the choppy water, and turned back to John, awaiting his reaction nervously.

"I'll...I'll try ok. I don't want to make any promises. Just be careful and I will keep in touch if anything changes. Either way I'll keep him safe, not push things too hard, start out small like we planned."

"He's making such good progress already," Molly nodded, biting her lip, "Be careful." She climbed into the tiny boat and revved up the motor. "Goodbye, John!" she called over the noise.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Silently John waved to her and then began the drive back, lazily watching the small woods as he drove by. Other than himself no one lived on the island, the only residents were a few birds, rodents, and other small animals that scurred about. Back in the cottage, he peeked into the bedroom, Sherlock stirring at the noise, though not waking. It started to turn very cold inside and it wasn't until John lit the fireplace did he finally feel comfortable, enough to relax in his chair. A plan had to thought, yet how? Truly he was at war with himself, enough that it carried on for an unknown time until he closed his eye intending to merely blink.

A few hours later, Sherlock woke up. He turned and peered out the window. 'Late afternoon?' he guessed, trying to discern how much of the darkness was from the rain beating against the window. Carefully pulling himself to a sitting position, he braced himself against the IV pole and stood, his arms and legs trembling. It was time to explore: his thoughts couldn't stop racing, and a stroll about the house may be the best solution to it. He wandered out onto the landing and couldn't hear Molly or John puttering around downstairs. Sherlock made sure his grip was firm against the pole and the railing before starting to make his slow descent down the uneven steps.

"Maybe 'stroll' isn't the best choice of words," he muttered to himself, hobbling along.

At the bottom of the steps, he checked that the IV was still properly placed before returning his hand to the pole. The more he moved the more he realized he was going to need to borrow John's cane, he mused, peering into the front room. John had fallen asleep in an armchair, his head slumped forward, and he did not stir when Sherlock cleared his throat. He turned back to the hallway, the wheels of the IV pole scraping a bit on the rough wood floor.

It was a old house, a bit more rustic than he was accustomed to, but it had started to warm up from the fire John had started. Sherlock tottered into the kitchen, and upon not finding Molly, he pried open the fridge. Boxes of instant bread mix, jam, milk-boring, he dismissed, digging further. A dark jar in the back corner caught his attention, and he held it up, trying to read the handwritten label in the weak kitchen light.

"O positive, collected 3 April 13." It was Molly's handwriting, looped and neat. The other jars were a mix of her neat handwriting and John's quick scrawl, and Sherlock felt a cold dread sinking down his back as he sorted through them, the glass clinking against the metal rack as his hands shook. Most jars were opaque, and Sherlock sniffed at them: a sharp saline solution, commonly used to preserve tissue samples for donations. He picked up what appeared to be a kidney in a jar and frowned at it, watching it as it moved, suspended in the liquid. Did John and Molly find his Paradise to be a bit lacking, and collect specimens for him? There had to be a pattern to it, he wondered, peering into the dark jars and trying to identify the organs within.

Stretching, John stirred himself awake and yawned a bit, making his way into the basement. On the table the body lay and on the rolling surgical table lay an arm. Throwing a lab coat on, John carefully picked up his needle and began to set to work connecting each individual vein and muscle fiber. It was difficult work, taking hours and it had to be done correctly, if not the blood would not be able circulate well or if his nerves were crisscrossed attempting to move his pink might cause his wrist to bend. Giving a small gulp and with a bead of sweat falling from his face, John wiped it away and observed his finished work. The external skin had to be held with both stitches and some staples, never pretty though necessary.

"I hope you appreciate all the time and effort I am putting into you," John chuckled and sat back on the stool, picking up the lifeless hand, "Like I said, one more miracle."

He turned the hand over in interest, checking every detail and remembering how it easily dragged across pieces of evidence and within a heartbeat, knew all of the facts. The maker, the year, who it belong to and on and on. Smiling, John leaned down a bit and letting go of all logic, gave a light kiss on top.

"Just come back please..."

"Oh I certainly will John, I will."

"Sherlock!"

Jumping up, the doctor was about to flip the sheet off until his newly created hand caught him on the throat bringing him to the cobble stone floor. Struggling to breathe and writhing, he fought him until the covering fell and he froze.

"No. No, no, please-"

"But why not Johnny boy! Or should I call you my new father then hm? Isn't there always that archetype of the son knocking his father off the thrown? You saw yourself as God and now it's my turn. I want my crown."

"You were never meant to be made," John answered in panic and stared back at the soulless eye, the other was milky white dead.

"I guess you accidently picked up the wrong heart, his is back at the cemetery. Now keep still, I need a new eye," it said as the free hand found the scapel from atop the table and brought it down to John, the blade in his entire vision. With one last effort John pushed himself off and threw his whole body weight onto the figure, tumbling onto the floor to find himself in the warm of the living room instead of downstairs. Gasping and clutching his chest, John needed water and staggered into the kitchen, though found someone at the fridge.

"Oh, u-u-um Sh-sherlock. You're up..."

Sherlock had sat down roughly on the kitchen floor, his legs too shaky to maintain a crouched position for long. He was intently reading the labels on darkened jars, and jumped when John spoke behind him.

"Hello, John," he said a bit anxiously. Throwing his head back he looked up to John, bottled organs in a ring around him, and he held up the jar of blood, "Bit of an odd thing to keep around the house, even in Paradise." The thick liquid sloshed against the dark green glass, and Sherlock held John's gaze. "Why do we have this?"

"Well... you tell me, this is your place," John bit his lip and decided to remain in the door frame, "So, just, then adventuring?"

Confused with himself and deciding he would have to analyze his own paradise another time, Sherlock nodded, starting to put the jars back into the fridge. "I saw you were sleeping, and I couldn't find Molly. So, I decided to search around for a bit." Sherlock looked up and examined John's quizzical expression.

"I got shaky... couldn't stand too long. Hence, the floor."

"Here, then, let me help..." John made his way over and slipped his arms under Sherlock, pulling him to the kitchen chair and set him down. Quickly he shut the fridge door, not before pushing all the glasses back and behind what food was left.

"At least you can move and stand around a bit longer than before, it's progress."

Smiling Sherlock watched John hide the jars again. "I know they're there now, there's really no need to hide them," he sipped a bit at his tea, long gone tepid from this morning, "Slowly, but surely. I'll be running down alleyways in no time."

"Yes, running would be good, but let's not over do anything. And about that, maybe you should take a break from working with Scotland Yard too, maybe enjoy a holiday."

"Oh," Sherlock said, pausing to think about it. "I guess I haven't really taken a holiday in a while. I don't really do well with breaks, but if you'd like to relax for a bit, I could try it out."

"Besides, what cases can there possibly be, no murders, it would be impossible," John added quickly and flexed his left hand, "Any place in mind, I might know a few."

"I don't really know... Is the geography the same here?" he waved away his concern and added, "Wherever you'd like to go. You've been here longer, I trust your judgment in holiday spots."

"Ya, well, pretty similar to Earth, at least from what I seen," John's eyes fall to the floor and left his stare there, as if the floor would have easier answers, "Though how you feeling?"

"Not terrible," Sherlock answered, rubbing at his chest, "I've been better, though. Think I've woken up from an overdose in better shape, but I'm hanging on."

"Anything you need? At all... I just want to help."

"I'll be alright. What exactly do we do here? Just... watch telly? Read? Talk? Because I'll have to warn you, I think I'm missing some information..."

"You want to try walking again, I'll get you my cane," he moved into the bed room and rummaged in the closet, unearthing his old companion, "I think we can start outside too. Rain's nearly done now."

Fingers weaving down Sherlock gently removed the IV needle and accepted the cane. He pulled himself up, leaning against John for a moment before deeming himself stable enough to stand on his own. "Much better," he murmured, looking down at the familiar cane. "It's an odd turn of events, isn't it? I tried to get you to stop using this when we first met, and now I'm the one that actually uses it."

"And not to mention I am forcing you to use it. Well eventually he'll be mine again. Take good care of him," John smiled and took his hand, stopping a minute because he felt the familiarity of the hand around his throat. Trying to shake the memory from his mind, he lightly tugged Sherlock forward and then held his hand on the door knob.

"Ready?"

Sherlock nodded, tightening his grip on John's hand. They slowly wandered outside, careful of the rain-slick steps, and began wandering through the overgrown garden. "So, Molly's still inside, somewhere, then?" Sherlock asked. "I didn't see her, but I didn't really explore much of the upstairs."

"Oh, well, no. She left, I imagine she went to visit her father somewhere. I imagine she likes to see him especially because he died when she was young," John answered much too quickly and held Sherlock's arm, timing his steps with his own.

The idea was sound thought it made him feel uncomfortable, so Sherlock frowned slightly. "That's... nice, I suppose." He seemed too eager to not discuss the issue further, and Sherlock stored it away for further analysis. His strides were significantly shorter than he was used to, and for a fleeting moment he imagined throwing the cane down, grabbing John's hand, and sprinting after some suspects. He sighed, and leaned on John's arm. "The garden is nice."

"Yes... very much so..." John agreed and squeezed his arm slightly tigher, "So, you said the last thing you remember was on the roof of Bart's right? I'm just a bit curious."

"Moriarty was there. I don't really remember leaving the lab, but then I was on the ledge, and you were on the street. Then Moriarty had a gun-" He closed his eyes, trying to remember the order of events, "I'm having trouble remembering right up to the end... are your memories of death this blurry? I should know this-my entire life has been about figuring things out, I _should _be able to remember jumping off a building, for Christ sake."

" I um..." John stammered and his heart raced, "I-I don't know either only that... that I was staring to the wall of the closet before I jumped off the chair..." It was the last memory he had before waking up in the hospital, surrounded by Molly, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson.

"I'm sorry. You're clearly uncomfortable talking about this, and I shouldn't be prodding you unnecessarily. I just feel like I'm losing my mind, and I wanted to know if you felt the same way. It's driving me mad not being able to remember!" he paused for a moment before asking, "Do you suppose it'll come back eventually?"

"I would like to think that it hopefully would, though in your case and mine, I don't think I want to really..." the words were becoming a bit caught in his throat and he couldn't stop the trembling in his left hand no matter how hard he fought it.

Finding his partner unstable Sherlock stopped walking and grabbed John's hand. "You're shaking again," he said, holding out his hand to watch the fingers tremble slightly. "The last time you were shaking, we were talking about crossing over. This... isn't exactly appropriate subject matter here, is it? I'm sorry, John."

"No. Please it's not that! I'm fine, I swear!" John almost pleaded as if shouting at Sherlock would further convince him. Gulping in a bit of air, he couldn't help but have his eyes trace the staples and stitches that had invaded Sherlock and it made his stomach churn slightly.

"You're clearly not fine, John! " Sherlock traded back loudly, "I'm sorry- I barely understood the social rules before, and clearly I don't understand the ones here either! I just want to remember, I need to figure things out, John-" He stopped, taking a breath to try to calm himself. "I just-don't understand where we are yet, and that scares me."

"I'm just.. sorry... so sorry," John ended up falling in his arms and held tight, "I don't mean to frighten you so..." Though in his mind he was apologizing for a number of other reasons.

Sherlock sagged under the additional weight, dropping the cane. "John, please, you don't need to apologize. I keep pushing you to talk about something you're uncomfortable with, and I should stop. I just-I might be a bit insufferable until I figure everything out, okay? I need to learn what this place is about."

"I don't know about all this as much as you do Sherlock. When I woke... I went looking for you... I think it's been over a year..." All he said was of half truth, allowing the lying to be so much more easier.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock replied, rubbing his back, "I didn't realize- I knew you had gotten here before me, but I didn't realize that it had been that long. I thought it had been maybe a month at most."

"It feels like a year, but... maybe time works differently here or something," John hiccupped and finally pulled away, wiping at his misty eyes, "Or maybe times changed depending who's realms you enter."

"That could be it," Sherlock gave it some thought, biting at his lip, thinking, "Sorry. I really didn't intend to ruin our walk. It's nice out- breath of fresh air, and all that." He tried to smile reassuringly at John.

"Very nice out, you picked a good spot Sherlock. Think you ever been here before?" John asked pressingly while Sherlock sighed and shook his head.

"I really like it, and it seems almost familiar... but I just can't place it." he stopped before adding, "We weren't ever here on an important case, were we?"

"No, not likely. Scotland does not ring a bell at all," John glanced around in puzzlement and shrugged, "the house neither. At least it's _livable_," he chuckled.

O dear, John and his jokes, Sherlock smiled back. "I would not put it past myself to make things difficult and set Paradise in the most confusing location ever. Perhaps that's the mystery. Maybe I actually do know this place, but only subconsciously..." He held onto John's arm again as they continued walking along the path.

"I would have imagined you living in your own Mind Palace, like a large library and files all over the place. Maybe a section for the best murders here, the differences of tobacco there, and then an empty exhibit of what should have been the solar system," John grinned cheekily causing Sherlock to laugh, trying not to cough but failing at it.

"I can work on that, I suppose. Lots of free time now, right? You'll have to continue sleeping on the sofa, I'm going to need your room for the solar system exhibit."

John noted his cough and glanced back at the dwelling behind him, "Come now, I think your body is protesting for more sleep."

"No, no more sleep," Sherlock groaned, fighting back a yawn. "Let's watch telly instead. I'll sit still with a blanket... which is almost as good as sleeping, right?" he wheedled as they turned back towards the house. He had picked up his cane and was tapping it along the brick pathway, leaning heavily on John to compensate.

"Oi, the cane's there for a reason," John grunted and kicked the door open. Childishly Sherlock stuck out his tongue at him, but leaned back onto the cane as they entered the house. "I should probably put the IV back in," he announced, "And maybe we could just read tonight, I think the light from the telly might be a bit much," he added, pressing a hand to his forehead.

"Sure, of course. Just tell me what you want, probably something on the- your book shelf."

Placing him down on the couch, John strode over to the bookcase behind him. In preparation, he has packed Sherlock's favorites and then mixed in his own.

"Surprise me," Sherlock yawned, pulling the blanket off the back of the couch. He curled up on the couch and waited for John to sit beside him, his eyes already half closed.

"Here then," he tossed Sherlock 'Fahrenheit 451' and grabbed the 'Hunchback of Notre Dame' for himself, settling cozily on the other end. Sherlock propped the book open on his knees and leaned against John. He wasn't turning the pages as quickly as he normally did, and by page 10 he was breathing deeply. The book closed lightly in his shaking hands and fell from his lap. He burrowed his head against John's shoulder.

Smiling, John placed the book on the end of the couch and glanced over at his head, patting his hair. An idea occurred to him and he wondered if he should. If he should dare. Deciding there was no harm in trying, John wiggled himself down so he was outstretched along the couch with Sherlock resting on top of him. Relaxing, he ran his fingers through the curly mass and began to feel at peace for the first time in maybe three years.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

After sometime Sherlock opened his eyes halfway, slightly disoriented. His face was pressed into John's jumper and his hand was lightly curled around the extra fabric. Realizing that he was sprawled across John, he peered up and saw that the other man had fallen asleep. It was nice, he thought, ignoring the dull ache in his torso and behind his eyes. The fire had gone down to embers, but the room was still comfortably warm, the blanket now draped over his back. He shouldn't wake John up, he looked tired when he thought Sherlock wasn't looking at him, and he could probably use the sleep more than Sherlock did. He let himself drift back into a light sleep.

Moriarty. On the roof, Moriarty is speaking to him but his words sound murky. Sherlock knows he's heard the words before, but his mind is dragging underwater and he can't keep up with Moriarty's mouth moving. He shakes his hand and pulls Sherlock close, chest to chest, and shoves a gun in his smiling mouth- but his face changes- it's John, John with the gun in his mouth, smiling at Sherlock maniacally, like he's won the game. The pain lights him up, Sherlock's head hurts- he's trying to shout at John to stop, but he barely gets his mouth open before the gun goes off-

Reactively Sherlock's head jerked back, and an instant later he wished he hadn't moved. It felt like his entire torso had been set on fire, and the pain in his head was nearly blinding him. "John," he managed, lying back down on his chest. His eyes were streaming and the front of John's jumper was wet. There was a struggle to move, his shaking arm and clutched at John's collar, trying not to whimper. "John," he tried again.

For once in the quiet without interruption of his subconscious and guilt, John had been enveloped in nothingness without a care. Except an unknown force pulled him forward and he nearly stumbled. In the next second his vision was filled with the face of a monster hideously thrown together by mere string and metal. With a startled yell he tried to scramble away and fell to the floor with a thud.

"Stay you! Away! Don't touch- wait... Sherlock?"

In the confusion Sherlock had slid to the floor with him, tangled in his blanket and propped up against the couch. "John! John, it's me!" he panted, weakly holding up his arms to protect his head. "Please- don't-"

"I- I...I'm sorry..." John looked on horrified, realizing he had been blinding himself to what it really looked like. What it really was. Not human... Clutching his racing heart, he ran. Ran out the door, ran down the pathway. Not stopping until he reached a tree and collapsed into it, holding on for dear life.

"How, how can I?"

Watching helplessly Sherlock struggled to his feet, leaving the blanket behind him. "John!" he called, stumbling into the hallway. He had heard a door close, but clutched a hand to his head. Primary concern. He stumbled into the basement where he had first awoken, searching for pills, a syringe, anything that would let him focus on something other than pain for five minutes. He found a syringe and the half-full bottle of painkillers, and he allowed his head to tip back as he injected it. It shouldn't hurt this much, he thought as the pain ebbed away. Shaking, he stood and returned to the door, clinging heavily to the stair railing "John?" he called again, hesitating in the doorway.

'I need to leave now, I made a mistake what was I thinking?'

'You cannot go now, he's in there waiting for you? He's just beginning everything!'

'There is that other option...'

'What?'

'What?!'

'You are a soldier, you know what to do, it would be simple.'

'I don't think I-'

'No don't you can't, after all you done!'

'Yes you can. Is that really the Sherlock you remember, that thing?'

Beside himself, John pondered and look down the path where the docks were, then back to the house.

"Johhhn!"

The voice tingled down his spine and peering over he saw the tall figure in the entrance and chewed on his lip. Shaky legs brought him back and not looking him directly in the eye mumbled an apology.

"I had a nightmare. What happened on the roof... it was coming back, and I- panicked," Sherlock explained, crossing his arms and looking down at the pavement. He tried to peer into John's eyes, but he wouldn't look at him. "I didn't mean to-I'm sorry, okay? Why did you run away from me?"

"The roof!" John's snapped his head up at the news and instead began the other question, "Sorry I was surprised waking up to you was all, though it's silly really I mean you know. Really I should know my own stitches." Finishing very much too quickly, his stomach dropped underneath him and realized what he said, "Well I mean why would I be afraid of stitches in general I mean, I'm an army doctor, dealt with great medical dramas all the time."

Sherlock reached up a hand to trace the incision across his face and attempted to smile. "I guess that is a bit foolish," he murmured. "Sleeping minds play tricks, and all. I couldn't tell what actually happened on the roof and what didn't. Moriarty was talking, but I couldn't understand him. It'll probably sort itself out in time, though, right?"

"Moriarty..." John shivered and remember when Lestrade delivered the news of not only Sherlock's suicide, but that of James Moriarty. Shot. 'No way he could have been brought back,' he thought to himself. In order to maintain the person's personality and maybe soul the brain had to be preserved as carefully as possible and- John shook himself back away from the textbooks he had studied over hours for. Books... his journal! Panicking, he wondered where he had last seen it and knew he had to lock it now every night.

"Well then if you remember any more, do tell, I'm curious."

"Are you sure you're alright, John? It seems like... I scared you pretty badly," he asked softly and placed his hands in the pockets of his robe to peered at John.

"Nothing, nothing, I swear. Look I um... I need a bit of a bath, so..." he pushed past Sherlock ahead of him and checked his room behind him with the door closed. It was lying in the drawer where it always had been and a flood of relief washed over him. John changed out of his clothes into a bath robe and placed the journal in the outside pocket. Moving to the bathroom, his bad leg gave in a bit and he had to cling to the wall for sturdiness. Lost in obscenities and a tad of pain, John gave no notice to the hole that had been ripped and what fell from it.

Waiting for John to leave, Sherlock made his way to the basement, hoping John did not notice him. He picked up the empty bottle and used syringe and set them into a biohazard box. Leaning against the operating table, he peered around. It almost looked like a replication of the lab in St. Bart's, the rough-hewn shelves standing in for sleek metal. An anatomy text was open on the table, and Sherlock went over to it, flipping through the pages idly. There were a few dark smears of something on the pages, and Sherlock blanched slightly when he realized that it was likely his own blood.

He left it open on the lab bench and searched through the textbooks on the shelves. Finding one about restoring biorhythms, he put it under his arm and returned to the living room, settling back down on the couch and beginning to read it.

Giving a slight groan at the hot, yet needed shower, John tried to rub away another on coming headache brought on by the stress. This was not panning out as much as he had hoped for and wished it was much easier. Still thinking it over another thought struck him. The basement! Had he ever locked the door since Sherlock re-awoke? Jumping out of the bed, he tossed on his robe dripping wet and ran to his room, now looking for the key. It had fallen underneath the night stand and John had to strain his finger tips to reach it. Key gained, he dashed inside the basement and checked around, finding some painkiller vials empty. It worried him though nothing else looked like it was missing. Heading back upstairs, John made sure the door was locked this time and scooped up his fallen journal.

"Listen Sherlock if you need medicine, you can just ask. I would rather give it to you myself ok?" John started and saw him reading in the living room, so he kept his own book hidden behind him.

"You were gone," Sherlock said, intently focused on the textbook, "I wanted to go after you, but I couldn't really concentrate. I just used up what was left after you sedated me. Figured if I wasn't allergic to it before, I probably wouldn't be a few hours later. It's not like I was using it for fun. I needed it. It was well under a regular dose."

"Oh, I see. That's clever and good measuring there. I know it's Paradise but I might have to disagree if you started using again," John smiled and chuckled.

"I was in pain," "I'm not going to slip back into my old habits. I shouldn't need to, not here," Sherlock clarified as he turned another page of the book.

Watching him, John began to relax, finding this concentrated and quiet Sherlock like the old one. It felt more natural and the idea brightened John more, happy to know his hard work was paying off more.

"So then enjoy your book then!" he said merrily.

"Thanks, John," Sherlock smiled a bit before turning back to the book and pulled the blanket from the floor to rest across his legs, but told himself to not fall asleep. What was the point of hanging out in the afterlife if all he was going to do was sleep? Strategically he kept the cover of the textbook hidden by his knees. Given the situation Sherlock was not really certain that John would find it an appropriate choice of reading materials, but he returned to his reading, soaking up the new information as quickly as he could.

Back in his room, John placed it back on the nightstand with the key and returned to his unfinished shower. When finished he toweled his head off and in his room started to write in a new entry, reporting his progress. Reflecting back on the medical numbers of the previous day and today, it was very evident Sherlock was progressing though the external scars and skin remained agitated and slightly read. Thinking it over he wondered if he ought to subscribe him some antibiotics and other medicines...

Sherlock tucked the textbook under the couch and went upstairs, wondering where he had left John's cane. Shakily he stood in the doorway of John's room, watching him write intently for a moment. "I was thinking about making dinner," Sherlock said, "I have absolutely no idea what kind of food we have, or if I've even kept any of my few culinary skills, but we should probably eat at some point tonight."

Jumping and nearly dropping the pen, John haphazardly stuffed the journal underneath his pillow and hopped off the bed.

"That's nice, but let me cook really. Can't have you straining yourself," John flashed a smile and rushed past him, "I'll make tea first!" he called behind him.

"Thanks," he murmured and could not help a smile to watch the small man chase down the hall, starting to follow him, but stopped, turning back to the room. The corner of the book was still visible, and Sherlock eased himself down on the bed, pulling the book out. Idly he started reading the first pages, wondering when John's handwriting had devolved into the typical doctor's chicken scratch. His name popped up a few times, but he frowned a bit as the terminology started referring to him as "the body". One of the diagrams, describing reconstruction of blood vessels, showed a wrist, the skin carefully pinned back to reveal the network of tubes below it. His stomach went cold, and he examined his forearm, finding the matching incision healing under a tangle of stitches. Sherlock swallowed, his mouth growing dry, and continued reading.

Humming merrily, John let the kettle begin to boil and took out a pasta box with some sauce. Pouring some of the water into two mugs to allow the tea to sit, the rest went into a pot and he waited for it to soften. His eyes wandered around the familiar kitchen, oven and stove there, fridge there. Over on the counter the usual knife set and toaster.

"Might be ready soon!"

"Alright!" Sherlock called and tried to flip the pages faster, skimming to get the overall ideas, "Harvesting new organs... reconstruction of the ribs... blood thinners administered..." he murmured aloud, his stomach churning as he found diagrams that matched his incisions. One drawing showed a section of metal shaped to fill in a missing part of his skull, and his hand went to trace the area. This couldn't just be damage from a fall, he thought, skimming past John's carefully inked pictures. He was barely a third of the way through the book, and the smells from the kitchen indicated that he didn't have much more time. As fast as he could he flipped the pages faster, trying not to panic.


	5. Chapter 5

7/30/2013, Tonight I posted Chapters 4 and 5, replacing the announcement chapter which was technically 4. So depending when you are reading this, you might need to jump back a chapter as it may have been accidentally over looked. Further apologies for the delays, thanks, and enjoy.

* * *

**Chapter 5**

By now the sauce was simmering and the pasta was cooked well through. "All done, come get it while it's hot!" Pulling two plates and utensils, he set the table and shut the flames off, giving the sauce one last stir.

"Just a second!" Sherlock stood and snapped the book closed. Scanning the hallway to be sure he was alone he found what he was searching for and opened the door opposite John's room. A closet. "It'll work for now," he muttered to himself, pushing the book back between a stack of towels and the back wall. "Coming!" He wandered back downstairs, trying to fix his expression into something calm and relatively normal. "Spaghetti?" he asked with a smile.

"Yep! All set- you alright? you look terribly pale? Maybe you should sleep more after this," John tilted his head and served their helpings.

"I think the medication's wearing off," he admitted after sitting down, "It's been a couple hours since my last dose. The spaghetti smells fantastic, though," he added as John set the plate before him.

Chewing on his own serving, John scanned over him as a Doctor and found not much change only that his muscles were probably becoming slightly stiff from the onset achiness.

"Right away then, when we are done, take a trip downstairs."

"Thanks," Sherlock mumbled, looking down at his plate while trying to keep his hands from trembling, one curled around the fork, the other gripping the edge of the table, "How... how long do you think it'll be until I don't need the medication?" he asked softly, sipping from his drink.

"Hmm, I guess it depends really. Normally I might say a few more days, though I am not sure if your Paradise changes anything," John lied with a shrug, "Couldn't you just wake up healed?" he teased.

Sherlock snorted, turning his attention back to his plate. "It certainly would have been easier," he said, "I hope it's soon. I don't know if I can change my Paradise retrospectively... Have you tried it?"

"Um, well... not really I like it the way it was," John answered and sipped at his tea, "It was rather lovely actually."

"I like this too," Sherlock said, "I'm just kind of surprised I didn't wake up in the flat. I can't even remember this place, if I've ever been here before. It's just confusing. It would have made so much sense if we had woken up in London."

"That's where I would have wanted to be- I mean it was where I woke up... our flat as if nothing changed and sometimes... sometimes I had flash backs of us standing around and solving cases. Mrs. Hudson barging upstairs because you blew up something or- or lost an experiment rat," John smiled and became lost in the happy memories.

"I could work on blowing something up, just to keep things consistent. Maybe set a small animal loose," he chuckled at the fond past, stopping to pause for a moment, and laced his hands together, "Earlier, you said you didn't wake up in London."

"No, I said it was where I woke up. You must be tired mate, though I was mumbling," keeping a straight face as much as possible and placed a hand on Sherlock's forehead, "Maybe sooner than later for those pills," he said and swallowed a bit more pasta.

"But you said you went fishing with your father..." Sherlock didn't finish his protest: the seed of doubt had been planted. He halfheartedly stored it away in the Mind Palace, sighing, and stabbed at his pasta. "I'm fine, John. My head aches, but I'm not really that tired."

"I must have been mistaken then, though I might have to insist that you take them now," John stood and once the key was retrieved, checked back in the basement in the supply cabinet. Walking over to the stairs, he just happened to look over to the book shelf, finding an empty space. Puzzled at first and then dawning on him, John felt completely uncomfortable and on returning to the kitchen, laid out the medicine next to Sherlock's hand.

"You said all you needed was pain medication when I was gone?" he questioned and leaned casually on the counter.

"Yeah," Sherlock said, taking a last bite of pasta before picking up the pills, "I already tossed the bottle and needle out. The red bin was for medical rubbish, right?" He gulped down the pills with a few sips of his water, then looked back at John. "What is it?"

"You sure you didn't take anything else?"

He looked back down at his plate and fiddled with his fork. "I borrowed an old textbook of yours to read. Didn't think you'd mind. Do you need it back?"

"Ah, old textbook I see. Interesting. Brush up on anything new?" John asked slightly serious and rested his hands behind him, "No, I don't need it back," he murmured.

Sherlock shook his head. "Refreshed a few anatomy terms I had forgotten, but not much else. I was trying to figure out how I could get myself back on a normal sleeping cycle, but it's not really what I was expecting. It's more of a hospice-care guide than a self-help one," he shrugged, "Maybe I'll try out the other ones."

"Maybe. I am your doctor I can take care of you, you know. So there's no need to for such books," John said.

Sherlock thought of the journal tucked away in the hall closet and forced himself to nod. "It's still by the couch, I think," he said softly. "I don't really mind reading them. Some of the medical terminology is a bit beyond me, but it's interesting."

"Good," he answered to Sherlock's statement of not understanding the book rather than anything else, "Not hungry anymore," releasing the grip of the knife handle behind him took his plate and dumped the remaining contents in plastic holders, about to place it in the fridge, but instead remember what was inside. So he tossed the rest in the rubbish bin and walked out into the living room. Standing. Unmoving.

Sherlock ate another bite before clearing his dishes. The medication was starting to kick in already, and as he wandered down the hallway, he kept a hand on the wall to steady himself. In the doorway to the living room, he stared at John's back as he stood in the center of the room.

"It's here," Sherlock said, going past him to retrieve the book from beneath the couch. "I don't want it anymore." He held the book out to the other man.

"But you are not done with it. Might as well finish it," John's voice on the edge of bitterness, ready to strike and protect himself- from what exactly he knew and did not know.

"You don't want me to read it," Sherlock shrugged and continued holding it out, "It's just going to put me to sleep. I should probably just read those." Sherlock tipped his head towards the bookshelf.

"Fine. Then let's get you to bed with a book," John picked up his book from the end of the couch where it had been left and tossed it on top of the mattress in the bedroom. "Read however late you want, I'll just be out in the living room."

Sherlock stretched out on the bed, rubbing at the suture over his heart. He picked up the book, glancing at the back before quietly saying, "I'm sorry. It was your book, and I should have asked before borrowing it."

"See you in the morning," John closed the door behind him and sat on the couch flipping on the telly. Nothing to watch or pay attention to, he stared at it absent mindedly. Slowly the small nagging feeling in his mind grew to a bit of fear, so when he set up his bed it was finished off with him hiding one of the steak knives from the counter underneath his pillow.

"As long as it's only those books," John tried to reassure himself.

After flipping through the book for a while, Sherlock got up and crept into the hallway. Trying not to make any noise, he untangled the journal from the towels and brought it back to John's room, the door creaking slightly as he closed it. The medication had hit him pretty well, and he was swaying a bit as he put the book back under the pillow.

"Later," he murmured, sinking down to the bed. He could feel the book through the thin pillow, but tried to ignore it as he sank into an uneasy sleep.

Barely sleeping a wink, John was woken up to the sound of his phone alarm, alerting him of a text and on inspection found it was from Molly.

_How's he doing?- M. Hooper_

_ He's doing spectacular, never better. Had a walk in the garden yesterday. -JW_

_ How are you handling it? It must be different. I'm still stunned by it, and I'm not even there to see it. - M. Hooper_

_ I have my little shocks though overall it is ok. Never better. -JW_, he texted on his back, feeling the knife push against him.

Would it be alright if I visited in a week? It's strange not working with you. -_ M. Hooper_

_Not sure, he sleeps. A lot. -JW_

_ The medication? He's not in too much pain, is he? - M. Hooper_

_ Right as rain! -JW_

_And he's eating okay? I'm worried about both of you. - M. Hooper_

_ Yes, yes all is well. I'm letting him sleep in today, help more with the healing process. -JW_

Sitting up, he pulled out the knife and lazily looked it over on inspection. So many possibilities but which to choose. If this Sherlock was not the one he knew, if instead he was a creature of rage- he could try again. Destroy and rebuild again, no?

_ Okay. Make sure you're getting your rest as well, John. I know you'd rather stay up and figure everything out, but you need a bit of sleep every now and then. - M. Hooper_

_I will and I'll ring if anything else occurs. Good luck Molly. -JW_

_ Bye John. I'll talk to you later. - M. Hooper_

John tossed his phone on the coffee table and settled back down, not before hiding his friend back underneath his pillow. Feeling the exhaustion overwhelm him, he could not think clearly, shifting from one thought to the next with little control or process. So, he decided to try again, empty his mind. Maybe reach that same place of calm he felt yesterday on the couch.

Sherlock woke up with a gasp, Moriarty's laugh ringing in his ears. He wiped at his face, trying to push the memory away. He hadn't deleted anything since he had woken up. Quietly, he pulled out the journal again and started to read again. It was-stunning, to say the least. Sherlock flipped through the pages, noting the amount of detail that had gone into each body part, and he wondered about the table in the basement. He turned several pages, going to the end, and scanned quickly.

"Resuscitation through electric shock planned for tomorrow." Sherlock mentally checked the date, but realized that he had nothing to compare it to. John's notes after that date had returned to the quick scrawl and noted Sherlock's progress and physical status. He had noted that Molly left without much emotion, a mere matter of thorough recordkeeping. The last page concerned him the most. It was clearly the page Sherlock had interrupted on, and he traced lightly over the jagged pen mark down the page.

"Worried," he whispered, reading aloud. "Something's different. I don't know what I brought back." The rest of John's thoughts ended in the startled line, and Sherlock returned the book to under the pillow. He leaned back, rubbing his chest and feeling his pounding heart beneath it.

"He doesn't know 'what' he brought back," he murmured to himself, knowing that sleep would likely be elusive for the rest of the night.

Tossing and turning, John saw it coming after him, the thing, the Creature. Foaming at the mouth and eyes filled with blood lust. There was no way he would die like rat. Reawakening, he was in a cold sweat again John had a possible idea, though he was unsure of the outcome. Lightly stepping to the basement door, he remembered about the door and knew the key was in the other room. Tucking the blade in the back of his pants, John covered the rest with his shirt and headed upstairs.

Reaching the landing, heart jumping at every little creak he made in the floor boards, John gazed at the door intently and slowly made for the handle.

Sherlock laid perfectly still as he heard John in the hallway. He struggled to keep his breathing normal and deep, keeping his eyes open just a crack. As the door opened, spilling light into the room, he stirred slightly, turning towards John. Sherlock stretched a bit, trying to ignore the corner of the journal in his neck.

"John?" he mumbled sleepily. "What is it?"

Instinctively, the soldier held the hilt of the knife and continued to move a bit closer. "Just needed to um, get something from my drawer is all..." he answered in the dark, "Just go back to sleep."

Steadying his free hand, John opened the draw, using his fingers to slide on the top so the key would fall into his palm as he reached inside. Luckily there was another item inside so he pulled it out, it felt like a book or something.

Sherlock squinted a bit at him, but he had fallen into shadow. He waited, keeping his breathing calm, and strained his eyes, trying to see what it was John was retrieving. A book? John seemed unusually protective of his books here, he mused. Although, if the journal was any indication of the general library, Sherlock could understand why.

"Sorry then to have disturbed you..." keeping his back to the door, John gradually backed out and closed it behind him. Outside he released the breath he had been holding and proceeded downstairs, unlocking the basement door. Downstairs John glanced around his lab and sat on a stool, resting his elbows on the table. Out of curiosity he checked what he had grasped from his drawer and turned it over. Bible, First Testament. It was not his, clearly left over from the previous owner and was dusty. Of course it would be _that_ book.

Once John left, Sherlock sat up, listening to his footsteps fall away. He reached over and opened the drawer again. It had been nearly empty, something that added to Sherlock's previous assumption that John hadn't been here long, but he felt around in the darkness anyway. There were a few pens rolling around the bottom of the drawer, but as his hand crept to the back, it closed on metal. Sherlock closed his eyes. John's pistol.

He recoiled back, cracking his hand against the top of the drawer. Closing the drawer slowly, he hoped he hadn't moved the gun noticeably. Laying back again, he pondered the new information. John had said the island was abandoned, he thought, what use would the gun be?

Flipping through the pages John knew the basic stories as all did and placed it back down again. Glancing behind him were the many textbooks he had come to know and pulled them out, re-reading all of his marked pages, glancing at the scrawled notes he wrote in here and there. Maybe this one was a mere experiment?

"A mere experiment?" a voice echoed from the corner of the room where a cabinet stood. John's eyes immediately snapped up to the man and he clenched his fists.

"Go away, you are dead and rotting. The way it should be."

"Now Johnny boy, Johnny isn't that a little hypocritical? I mean really can you believe yourself when you say such things?"

John bit his lip and armed himself with the knife when the figure hopped down from his perch and moved close.

"Not real! Stop it, stop this!"

"Honestly you think you can do anything to me really?" From his back shot out blackened feathers, wings that could have spanned the room and John shrank away, "He is not happy with you, where you tread is dangerous."

"Who? Sherlock he has no idea-"

"I wasn't talking about him," he retorted and held John's face gingerly with his finger tips, "Did you think this would be a happy ending? Yes you brought him back, well done, but can you really trust it's him? He'll hate what you have done to him? Violated and desecrated his bones-"

"Stop-"

"Used Molly-"

"Enough!" John gave a final shout and swung up into the empty air, all alone surrounded by the cold stones of the lab.

Sherlock sat up at John's shout. Stumbling to his feet, he reached out for the pistol again and hid it in the pocket of his robe. "John?" he called, going downstairs to the basement door. He rattled the knob, but it was locked from the inside. "John!" he shouted, pounding on the door. "What's wrong?"

"Go away!" John checked around, nothing was there just the lab as it was. Sitting down he feverishly began to skim the sacred book and chewed on his tongue.

"Please, John." Sherlock leaned against the door. His knees ached, probably from moving too quickly. "You're worrying me. Is everything okay?"

"Open the door for him," the voice cooed.

John fell back, yet picked up the blade as it cackled, the noise void of humor and in this new appearance it had stitches and sutures all over the cranium and what John assumed was probably the rest of his body.

"You are just a devil in Westwood!"

"I prefer dark angel but then again I suppose it's true. Come on what's with all the hesitation?"

"I just need to wake up!"

"You can never wake up from me," it trailed off.

"Need to wake up, need to wake up..." John looked down at his knife and then to him. Then back to himself. Not knowing any other way out, he sliced a cut into the palm of his hand with the blood seeping out. The pain exploded in his mind and squinting his eyes open, found he was alone again and tiredly, let his arms drop to his sides.

"Now I need a bandage..." he grimaced

Sherlock sat with his back against the door, setting the gun on his knees. He could hear John talking, an unintelligible string of words that occasionally peaked in volume. John stopped speaking, and Sherlock was about to call out to him, but he heard jars moving around and decided to wait. He went into the Mind Palace, pulling his most recent data to the forefront. John was obviously distressed.

He was talking to himself, and Sherlock knew he had been lying earlier: it was Sherlock's presence that had scared John, not the sutures or twisted scars. Add that to the new possessiveness, as well as the nervous tics, and Sherlock knew something was wrong. He also wasn't certain why Molly had left abruptly. He was fond of having Molly around, and wasn't certain as to how her departure fit in with John's odd behavior.

It was his afterlife, he thought, setting the gun down on the floor. Why were there inconsistencies?

He had no connection to his place, and he thought he would have woken up in London, where John may or may not have too. He pressed his hands over his eyes, willing the data to fall into a perfect pattern.

After finding the first aid kit and wrapping his hand with a clean bandage, he sat back on the stool tiredly, folding his arms on the table and resting his head on it. What should come next and how was all he could think about. Sherlock had apparently visited here when John was not around and he already took one of the volumes from the shelf, not to mention his slip ups.

His lack of cognitive ability was clear, either clouded from drugs or possibly...never came back. And like other unintelligent beasts who became angry, they lash out. The sinking felling welled in the pit of his stomach for should a fight break out between him, he would undoubtly be unmatched, all the muscle fiber having not been used for so long would be strong, maybe even super human according to one of the notes he had found in the old alchemy books. It was not safe.

"I have to start over again..." John murmured to himself and began to climb the stairs, and when John unlocked the door and opened it, quickly jumped a stair or two back when a body on the other side had slumped to his feet.

Sherlock fell back as the door opened behind him, crashing onto his side. In his panic, he grabbed the pistol from behind him and leveled it at the dark figure on the stairs, trying to will his hands to stop shaking. He was breathing too quickly, his vision blurring a bit, and he kept the gun trained on the figure.

"Please," Sherlock said, feeling his headache returning. "Please, just leave him alone!"

In reaction the soldier blocked the arm, hitting It into the wall and picking up the Thing at his feet, John tossed It down the stairs as it tumbled.

"You were my worst mistake."

Sherlock gasped for breath at the bottom of the stairs. His collarbone was broken, he thought, a distant part of his mind cataloging the injuries. Likely his nose was as well, possibly ribs, left femur. His breath was ragged as John descended the steps after him.

"This isn't the afterlife, is it, John?" he asked, coughing. The gun had been lost in the chaos, and he struggled to stay focused on John.

"Shut up!" John roared and nearly jumped down the staircase to him, "So know you are trying to kill me? I created you, you should be grateful you can even take breath."

Sherlock tried to scramble away from John, but cried out at the sudden movement., the back of his robe catching on the rough basement floor. "Please. Don't do this," he squeaked, holding up a shaking hand. "I'm sorry, I was scared, I didn't mean it John, please-" he started shouting. "I'm sorry!"

"Stop pretending... stop pretending to be him! You are not at all the fraction of a shadow of him, so stop it! Stop this!" In a fit he randomly threw the knife against the wall, it fell to the floor in a clatter. "I was wrong. Yes I lied because I could, I played God because I could. I tried to give life because I could. You broken pathetic thing."

"I'm him," Sherlock begged. "How can I prove it to you? I remember the cases we went on, I remember what happened on the roof! How else can I show you that I'm Sherlock?" He could taste blood at the back of his mouth, and he coughed again.

"Where's your brain!? The wit!? You are just dull and Ordinary. I was able to make you believe a lie and you swallowed it whole heartedly. Sherlock would not all be that easily swayed!" John shouted and pulled Sherlock up, pushing him into the wall.

He groaned as the wall dug into his back. "The medications," he hissed, "They're blurring my mind but I need them. It hurts too badly without them. I've got sutures /everywhere/. I've got a goddamned piece of metal holding my skull together! You have to give me time, I can be extraordinary again, I just need time to heal!"

"Don't mock me!" John strode over and clutched Sherlock's shirt, shaking him, "I'll just have to start again. I'll make you more perfect."

Coldness gripped his chest. "Have you done this before?" he asked, recoiling away from him. "Was I not good enough the first time around? John, I'll be okay if you just give me time!"

"You were dead the first time around, nearly half rotten by the time we reached you. And time... how long is 'time'?" John began and reached a lingering hand in from of Sherlock. "You were my first time. Apparently you will not be my last either."

"I need time to heal. A couple months, at least. Long enough to get weaned off the pain medication," Sherlock said, trying to keep his voice steady. "I can be good enough, John, let me have time to show you that you did a good job."

"Time... time..." John began to pace the room and ended up back at the operating table, leaning his weight into his hands but recoiled when the pain in his left hand shot through his arm, forgetting his self infliction was there. Then again the pain was like fan in his clouded mind, pushing away a bit of the fog, allowing him to think. Rationally. Logically. As Sherlock might, the thought whizzed by.

"Sherlock... oh god what have I done?" He allowed himself to sink to the floor, panting as the pain shot through his broken bones.

"John," he said, relief flooding his voice. "John, I knew you'd listen, I knew you'd realize- thank you," Sherlock murmured, leaning against the rough stone wall.

"You're... you're not angry? I don't understand? I...I-I- I did so much damage, why are..." John sunk to the floor and pulled his knees in, watching Sherlock.

Sherlock carefully wiped at the blood dripping from his nose. "I think 'damage' is probably a good word for it," he said dryly. "And, yes, I'm angry, but my relief at not being sliced open again is outweighing that at the moment. Might shout at you later, but right now I'm a bit distracted. This isn't the afterlife, is it," he repeated, glancing John up and down.

"No," John said flatly, too tired to keep up the facade and carefully stepped over to Sherlock, "I'll help fix what I can...but I might have to open you up again..."

Working out on an agreement, John kept Sherlock sedated the rest of the night as he went to work with his surgery, and to his luck it was all much easier than it normally would. Having been stitched together by various parts in the first place, it was easy to open up certain areas of the body, and the cells still new from being resurrected could endure much more than usual. First opening the leg, John dug in to find the broken femur bone and carefully lined up the pieces together before fusing them. As for the ribs it was easier to deal with them from a different approach and the doctor decided to remove them entirely and replaced them from the pile of spare parts he kept for situations just like this... sort of. Closing him up and adding another crisscross of stitches to the body, he knew there was nothing much he could do with the nose so he wrapped it up as best as he could.

Last but not least, John pulled the shower head that was connected to the water supply in the wall and hosed down the body, lightly scrubbing Sherlock clean as the dirt and blood was washed off, flowed from the table and down the drain that was built into the basement floor. By now it was morning of the next day and in his exhaustion, managed to towel off Sherlock, but decided to keep him held to the table just in case and dosed him with another sedative, so he placed Sherlock's wrists and ankles into the metal clasps that had been attached to the table before venturing into the bedroom and collapsing on the bed. John

nearly slept an entire day and a half.


End file.
